


Designer Me Up

by sunshinexbomb



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Celebrity Crush, M/M, Sugar Daddy Mike Richards, famous/non-famous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 00:11:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16482395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinexbomb/pseuds/sunshinexbomb
Summary: Mike bites his lip nervously and blurts out, “This was a date right?”Richie laughs again, more loudly this time. He takes Mike’s hands in his, and Mike wishes that his palms weren’t so damn sweaty. “I took you out to one of the nicest restaurants in town and paid for dinner. We shared a dessert. I fed you food off my plate. What else did I have to do to make it obvious it was a date?”“I do most of those things with Willy also,” Mike says, but he can’t keep the smile off his face.--In which Richie visits the tiny DC rink that Mike works at, asks him on a date, and treats him to very, very nice things in the process.





	Designer Me Up

**Author's Note:**

> Three years in this fandom and I've finally finished HBB for the first time! I really did intend for this to be a much longer, drawn out piece, but unfortunately, sometimes, real life gets in the way. That being said, I'm still really happy with how this turned out in the end!
> 
> Of course, no Big Bang fic is complete without the accompanying art and this year I was lucky to work with Rae [masterpenguin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/masterpenguin/pseuds/masterpenguin)!! Please check out the playlist they made for this fic [here](https://8tracks.com/masterpenguin/hbb-x-sunshinexbomb) which is amazing and the perfect soundtrack to read along to!
> 
> Lastly thank you to everyone who supported me, let me bounce ideas off of them, did writing sprints with me, or listened to me as I complained about this fic. It wouldn't be complete without you! Special thanks to Kassie and Julie for the beta - all other mistakes are completely my own. And of course, thank you Hann for coming up with the idea of this fic ages ago and letting me run with it - you’re the real MVP. 
> 
> This is clearly fictional and the title is from Panic! at the Disco's "Roaring 20's".

The engine turns over with a stutter and a high pitched whine that lasts only a few seconds before stalling out completely. Mike stares at the ignition, eyes wide in horror. He turns the key again.

“No, no, no, not today,” Mike mumbles, only to get the same result. A stutter, a whine, and then nothing. Mike turns the key again and then again a fourth time. Same thing. 

God, he’s so fucked.

Mike groans, head falling against the steering wheel. The horn blares loudly, startling him, because of fucking course that still works even when his piece of shit car is out of juice.

“Okay, Latta, you got this,” he says to himself, picking his head up quickly. “Options, options.”

His car is dead. He _has_ to get to work because he’s been late way too many times already this week. Mostly everyone he knows is at work. Tom’s car is in the shop and he leaves straight from his summer classes to the rink anyway. He doesn’t have enough money for an Uber because paying last month’s rent bled him dry. 

“Bus,” he says, again to himself, fumbling in his pockets for his phone.

He pulls up the app for the bus schedule and - thank god. There’s a bus, one that will take him just a couple minutes walk away from the rink. It arrives down the street in just - fuck.

Mike takes the keys out of the ignition, throwing them and his phone into his bag before stumbling out of the car. He nearly falls on his face, but catches his footing just in time.

By the time he makes it to the bus stop, Mike’s lungs are burning. There’s people staring as he bends over at the waist, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He doesn’t particularly care, just grateful that he made it to the bus stop with a few seconds to spare.

Mike’s just barely recovered by the time the bus rolls to a stop. He doesn’t have a bus pass, and scrapes together enough change only with the help of the sympathetic old lady behind him who lends him a couple of quarters. The whole ordeal is embarrassing, and when he sits down in the far back of the bus, he’s red in the face from far more than just exertion.

As the bus rolls through town, he leans his head against the window, sending a silent prayer to whoever that the rest of the day does not suck as much as this morning.

\--

There was a time Mike lived and breathed hockey. His days were mostly spent filling his lungs with recycled rink air and relishing the burn in his legs as he skated across sheets of ice. He trained and he ran drills and he practiced and practiced and practiced.

At one point, he thought he was going to play pro. And he did, sort of. He was scouted by the ECHL, and he was happy because he was playing hockey. 

Then, reality hit, and Mike realized as a player he was good, maybe decent, but that he would never crack an AHL roster and definitely not an NHL one. More importantly, he realized that the money making it into his pockets wasn’t enough.

So, after two seasons in the ECHL, where Mike saw less ice time than he hoped, he was back home in Kitchener. He put what he had left of his hockey salary into the college fund his parents had started when he was younger and he thanked them for supporting his pipe dream while still providing him with a fall back.

While back home, Mike worked and started applying to schools both around Toronto and down the east coast of the US. After everything, he ended up with a student visa, a shit ton of loans to his name, and enrollment to a small college in DC that had a killer exercise science program.

It’s not the life Mike imagined for himself, and juggling classes with two jobs that barely cover his expenses isn’t easy, but Mike supposes it could be a lot worse.

\--

Even after catching the bus, Mike is so fucking late to work. He sprints again, this time from the bus stop to the rink, and by the time he’s in the locker room, he’s already exhausted. 

Mike ties up the laces to his skates with clumsy, hurried fingers, cursing under his breath because of course there’s a giant fucking knot in one of them that he can’t get out. It eats up enough of his attention that he nearly jumps out of skin when someone lays a hand on his shoulder.

“Woah, hey, it’s just me,” says his boss, when Mike startles and turns around, but that does nothing to stop the rapid beating of Mike’s heart.

“Ovi, fuck, I’m so sorry I’m late again,” Mike says. “My car wouldn’t start, then I had to take the bus, and now my fucking laces are fucked up, and -”

“Chill,” Ovi says, laying both his hands on Mike’s shoulders this time. “Deep breaths, babe, c’mon.”

Mike stops his rambling, trying to match his breathing with Ovi’s even, steady breaths. It helps, but his face is still warm and probably all gross and splotchy still. 

“Better?” Ovi asks with a raised eyebrow and Mike nods.

“Yeah, sorry.”

“I know it’s good Canadian boy in you, but please stop apologizing, Latts,” Ovi says with a grin. Mike’s about to open his mouth for another _sorry_ , but Ovi cuts him off before he can get it out. “And you’re not that late. Willy got here pretty early and is nearly done setting up the ice and the kids won’t be here for another fifteen minutes still.”

Mike nods, relieved. Not for the first time, he’s grateful that Ovi is so chill because if he were working for anyone else, his ass would probably be fired already. “Okay, okay, that’s good,” Mike says, and then asks, “What did you need then?”

“Just wanted to tell you to stay after for a bit after the lessons, okay? There’s some cool stuff happening at the rink this week. I’m sure you’re gonna love it.” There’s a look in Ovi’s eyes that Mike can’t exactly place, and something about it almost unsettles him. 

“Yeah, sure, of course,” Mike says, trying to ignore Ovi’s wolfish smile. “I’ll be here, Ovi. Thanks.”

He turns back to his skates, hands a bit more steady as he works on the demon knot that he can’t seem to get loose. As Ovi leaves the locker room he adds, “Oh, and Latts? There’s extra laces in my locker. Just cut those out and start over.”

Mike’s face turns hot again. He waits until Ovi is completely gone to cut his losses, so to speak, and take Ovi’s advice.

\--

There are few things in his life that Mike loves more than his summer job.

Like Ovi said, Tom’s already on the ice before him, setting up cones and nets for the kids who will soon be flooding the rink with their wobbly skating legs and endless amounts of enthusiasm. Even if Mike doesn’t get to play much hockey himself anymore, he’s glad he has this, that he gets to teach kids how to skate and play and learn to love the game while building up their confidence.

“Nice of you to show up, dude,” Tom says when Mike steps onto the ice, but there’s no heat behind his words. 

Living out of each other’s pockets 365 days of the year means that Tom is the last person to care if Mike’s shitty car breaks down and he’s a few minutes late to work. He has to deal with it enough that it’s nothing when they both know that Ovi would never actually let Mike go even if he threatens to on the daily.

Mike doesn’t hesitate in sticking his skates in front of Tom’s, and laughing when he takes a spill. “Yeah, thought I’d drop by.”

Tom glares as he gets up, wiping ice off the seat of his pants and flicking Mike off. Mike’s known him long enough to know that during work, Tom’s all bark and no bite, especially when kids are going to start filtering in any second now.

“I’d like to drop your-”

As if on queue, Tom’s interrupted by high pitched giggling and their first few students of the day excitedly calling out their names.

Mike smiles wide when he sees them: Johnny with his blond hair and permanent summer sunburn; Sarah with her missing front tooth that she claims she lost playing ball hockey but her mom confirmed came out when she was eating breakfast one morning; Dante and his loud laugh and deep dimples. They’re all repeats from last summer, kids who decided they liked Tom and Mike and their tiny hour-long workshop enough that they wanted to come back the next year. 

“Coach Mike, look I lost another tooth,” Sarah says to him in greeting, skating over and smiling wide. Sure enough, there’s a huge gap in her teeth that she shows off with pride.

“Dude, that’s sick,” Mike says, holding out his hand for a high five that Sarah accepts readily. “You’re just like a real hockey player now.”

Her smile grows somehow wider and she blushes in the same way some kids would if you told them they were cute or had pretty hair. Mike adores her - he’s not supposed to have favorites, but like, it’s hard sometimes.

Sarah leaves him to join Johnny and Dante where they’re warming up by passing around one of the pucks Tom laid out for them. The passes are imprecise and sloppy, but Mike still marvels at how much they’ve grown over the past year when Dante was still afraid of letting his skates touch ice and Johnny could barely hold his stick tight enough to shoot correctly. 

It doesn’t take long for a few of the other kids to start coming in. The class is mixed level, some of the kids returning from previous summers, others barely knowing how to skate. But with both him and Tom there, it’s easy to workshop small groups and focus on specific skills based on ability. 

Mike looks forward to this every single summer.

“You ready to get started?” Tom asks him, skating up lazily behind Mike. 

“Always,” Mike says, smiling.

His day’s gotten better already.

\--

Mike and Tom teach two more groups before their day is over. For the most part, it’s a successful day - only two kids cry; one girl completes her skating drills without falling for the first time; and one manages to get a shot past Tom’s goalkeeping, resulting in a sick celly that Mike puts on his Instagram story. Mike can’t really ask for more from the day.

It doesn’t take long for him and Tom to clear up the ice. They chirp each other while collecting the equipment, shoving and rough-housing their whole way to and from the storage room. Mike’s pretty much forgotten about his awful start to the day by the time they’re back in the locker room and packing up their things.

Ovi comes in just as Mike is storing his skates, leaning against the lockers as he waits for Mike and Tom to finish up. When they’re done, they take a seat on the benches, and Mike feels like he’s in juniors again, waiting for his coach to give the pre-game pep talk. 

“So, I told you guys there’s gonna be some cool stuff that’s happening at the rink soon,” Ovi says to get started.

“Is it like, actually cool?” Tom asks, making Mike laugh. “Or is it like the time you told us there would be something cool happening and it turned out they put new vending machines in the employee lounge?”

“Fuck you, those vending machines are awesome,” Ovi says, pointing a finger at Tom who just shrugs. “And, no, this is like probably the coolest things to ever happen here. Latts especially is going to cream his pants.”

Mike rolls his eyes, but says, “What is it, Ovi?”

Ovi smiles, that same wolfish grin from this morning. Mike knows it usually means trouble and he’s curious as to what’s behind it. “Well, later this month, we’re going to get a visit from the Stanley Cup.”

Tom’s eyes widen. “Shut up. The Cup? Like the actual Cup? Holy shit.”

“Yes, the actual Cup,” Ovi says, grin widening. 

“Ovi, that’s fucking awesome,” Mike says. Wow, the Stanley fucking Cup coming to their tiny little rink is - more than Mike can imagine really. He pauses, though. “Why is that going to make me cream my pants though? Like, the Cup’s sexy, man, but I’ve seen her already.”

“That’s because the Cup is coming with a companion,” Ovi’s is smile is so wide it’s almost manic. Mike is a bit worried for him. “That companion is a former Kitchener Ranger, a Mem Cup winner, and a two-time Stanley Cup Champion.”

Mike’s heart skips a beat in his chest, because off the top of his head he can think of one guy who fits that description. “Ovi, it’s not-”

“That’s right, Latts. The Stanley Cup will come with none other than your ultimate wet-dream, Mike Richards.”

“He’s not my wet dream,” Mike yelps the same Tom exclaims, “Holy fuck, Mike Richards!”

Ovi ignores them both, taking out his phone and reading from it, “Before passing the Cup onto the reigning Stanley Cup Champions, Mr. Richards is doing a small Stanley Cup tour this summer to career landmarks and major cities such as his hometown of Kenowa; Kitchener, Ontario where he played for four years on the major junior team the Kitchener Rangers; Philadelphia, Pennsylvania; Los Angeles, California; and Washington DC. Your rink has been selected as a stop on Mr. Richards’ tour. Mr. Richards and the Cup will stop by for a one-hour time slot of your choosing.”

Mike takes a second to let it sink in - Mike fucking Richards in their tiny little rink where the most exciting thing to happen has been a new vending machine in the staff room. The whole thing seems so surreal. Mike remembers going to Rangers games when he was younger, pouring over endless hours of video online, trying to model his game off of Richards’ growing up, dragging Tom to games just last season to watch him from the nosebleeds at the Verizon Center. And now he’s going to be _here_.

“You gonna take the poster down from your locker, Latts?” Tom asks, bumping his shoulder against Mike’s.

“Nah, you know he’s gonna make Richards sign it and then jerk off to it every day,” Ovi says before Mike can respond.

“Both of you can fuck off,” Mike groans, face turning red. 

But not even Tom and Ovi’s laughter can stop the nervous excitement rolling in Mike’s stomach.

\--

Richards’ Cup visit is scheduled right around the end of June, before the Cup is supposed to be passed on to the Penguins to celebrate their victory. There’s an air of excitement that fills the rink, most of the kids buzzing at the idea that a real life NHL player is bringing the Stanley Cup to them.

It’s possible that Mike and Tom and some of the staff are even more excited, but they all try to hide it, especially Mike who’s already tired of Tom and Ovi’s endless chirping.

The night before Richards’ visit, Tom has a late class and Mike is buzzing with nervous energy. He can’t sit still for more than a few minutes, and ends up trying to plan an outfit for the morning.

“Do you think it’s too much to wear my Rangers shirt?” Mike asks, Skyping with Andre from his second job.

“Richards never played for the Rangers,” Andre says, absent-mindedly. He’s not looking at the camera, instead staring at something on his phone with much more attention than he’s giving Mike. Mike doesn’t appreciate it - he’s going through a _crisis_ here.

“Dude, the _Kitchener_ Rangers,” Mike says, holding the shirt against his chest. “You’re not even looking.”

Andre looks up for a second, shrugs, and goes back to his phone. “Wear whatever. I don’t think it’s gonna matter that much.”

“You’re literally the worst,” Mike mutters, dropping his shirt on the floor and going back into his drawers. “I should just wait for Tom to come back.”

Andre scoffs. “You think Tom’s really going to be helpful?” his voice interrupts Mike as he digs through the bottom of his drawers for something. “You’re going to be skating and stuff - just wear something comfortable. I really don’t think Mike Richards is going to be paying much attention to what you’re wearing.”

Mike doesn’t need to look at his computer to know Andre is probably rolling his eyes.

Mike gives up when all he comes up with is an old Guelph shirt that definitely doesn’t fit anymore and an even older Maple Leafs shirt. He plops down at his desk, panicking for a second when it jostles his laptop charger and the battery warning pops up. He fiddles with it a bit until the warning goes away, and hopes that sometime soon he can start to save up a little for a new computer.

“Why don’t I own anything nice?” Mike asks, not caring that it sounds whiney and petulant even to himself.

“Because we work part-time at a gym for most of the year, bro, and then you and Tom get paid next-to-nothing at the rink. Not really high-rolling,” Andre says, finally looking up with a bit of attention. “But, like you’re making do. You know it could be worse. Just - enjoy tomorrow, Latts. Don’t worry about things too much.”

Mike sighs, fingers tapping nervously against the edge of his desk. He knows Andre is right. He’s worrying about nothing. “Yeah, no, I’m not gonna worry.”

Andre grins a bit sympathetically before his smile grows. “Dude, you’re meeting Mike Richards tomorrow.”

“I know,” Mike says with a laugh. He leans back slightly in his chair, his shoulders relaxing. It still hasn’t sunk in.

“Did you have that dream again?” Andre smirks and Mike glares at him through the camera.

“That was one time!”

“Hm, sure,” Andre says with a little hum. “I can’t believe it wasn’t even a dirty dream. Only you would have a dream about your favorite hockey player _taking you on a_ _date_.”

“Whatever, man,” Mike replies, blushing a little. “I’m hanging up on you.”

Andre looks like he’s about to add something, but Mike doesn’t bother waiting, exiting out of Skype without a goodbye. Andre texts him immediately, a simple _rude_ that Mike answers with a string of middle finger emojis.

Mike tosses his phone onto his bed and makes one last attempt to find something acceptable to wear for tomorrow.

\--

“Please don’t fail on me today, baby,” Mike mumbles, turning the key almost hesitantly while Tom sits nervously in the passenger seat beside him.

The engine gives a little sputter and Mike’s heart sinks for a second until his car roars to life. 

“Fuck yeah!” he exclaims, accepting Tom’s high five.

“I have no idea what we would’ve done if the battery had stalled out again,” Tom says in relief.

“Cried, probably,” Mike jokes, and he’s only half-kidding because he’s sure tears would definitely be involved. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to worry about that now.

The radio plays low as Mike drives, and he tries to concentrate on the simple banter of the morning show hosts instead of the butterflies in his stomach. In a couple hours he’s going to be meeting Mike Richards. He’s repeated it to himself maybe a thousand times,but it still doesn’t feel real.

He’s not nervous. At least, he doesn’t think he is. The feeling’s a bit different. Excitement, maybe. Something like the feeling he used to get before the first game of the season, right before his skates would touch ice in front of a crowd instead of the usual empty practice stands.

Even if he can’t describe the feeling, he knows that the anticipation is all-consuming and it’s hard to think about anything else.

\--

The rink fills up fast.

Instead of holding their regular classes, they’re doing things in an open skate kind of style, with all of their students invited to attend. Ovi didn’t want anyone to miss out on meeting Richards or seeing the Cup, and Mike thinks it’s pretty awesome that so many kids are gonna be able to cash in on this opportunity.

“Are you totally shitting yourself, dude?” Tom asks, skating up and purposely bumping into Mike from behind. Mike stumbles just a little, catching himself before he runs into a pair of girls holding hands as they skate circles around the rink.

“No,” Mike insists, which is true. He feels - calm, he guesses. He loves being around the kids, despite how loud the rink is with so many of them packed onto the ice, but the chaos is familiar and keeps Mike’s mind occupied.

Tom raises an eyebrow at him, disbelieving, and Mike shoves a shoulder into his, making Tom glide a few inches backwards. “I’m serious - I’m good. He’s just - he’s just a guy you know? I’m not gonna like lose my shit or anything.”

“Just a guy,” Tom mutters to himself. “Just a guy who’s won the Stanley Cup and has been your favorite player for like your whole life, but yeah, just a guy.”

Mike shrugs, trying to push away the slight nervous jump he feels in his belly. “I’m trying not to think about it too much.”

“Whatever, dude,” Tom says, before skating around Mike and calling out, “We’ll all see how you’re feeling soon enough.”

Mike shakes off Tom’s words, diverting his attention instead to wrangling apart two kids who are getting a bit too rowdy while racing across the ice. It’s easy to concentrate on that instead, making sure everyone safe and pausing to chat with some of the kids who seem just as eager as Mike is starting to feel as the minutes until Richards’ arrival tick down. 

They’re about half an hour into the free skate when Ovi comes into the rink, waving Mike over from his spot by the boards. Mike skates around wobbly-kneed kids to where Ovi is standing, a grin stretching wide across his face.

“Is he here?” Mike asks, trying not to sound too eager. His heart is racing fast, though, and he can’t help the way his hands shake a little as he gets himself off the ice.

“Yeah,” Ovi says, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. “Richards is here, the Cup is here.”

Mike feels a grin spread across his own face, one that he can’t control or tamp down no matter how hard he tries. Fuck, this is _happening_. “Should we get everyone into the stands? Or do you want them to stay on the ice?”

Ovi looks out into the crowd - there’s a lot of kids, some of their parents also sticking around for the morning. Mike can imagine the chaos that could ensue if that many bodies are on the ice the moment Richards comes out.

“I think stands, if you and Willy don’t mind wrangling them all up,” Ovi decides.

Mike nods, heading onto the ice to find Tom.

\--

It’s not an easy task getting everyone situated, even with extra help from the parents. The kids are buzzing with anticipation, chatting loudly, kicking their skate-clad feet in excitement as they sit in the bleachers. Mike and Tom stay by the boards and Mike can feel the nervous energy radiating off of Tom.

“I think you’re losing it more than I am,” Mike says, elbowing Tom gently in the ribs. Tom elbows back harder.

“Shut up, I’m totally chill.”

Mike doesn’t believe him for a second, but doesn’t have time to reply.

Ovi skates out onto the ice first, and the din of the crowd quiets down almost immediately. Mike leans against the boards, arms folded across the top of them as Ovi greets them all.

“Hey everyone, so as you know we have something really exciting happening today, which is why you’re all here together instead of suffering through your drills with Latts and Willy,” Ovi says, smiling when there are a few giggles from the kids. “Who knows what we’re going to be seeing in just a few short minutes?”

“The Stanley Cup!” one girl shouts out, and there are cheers from the crowd. Mike’s heart beats rapidly against his ribcage, pumping anticipation through his veins.

“Right!” Ovi says. “But we’re not just seeing the Cup but also -”

Mike’s breath catches a little in his throat. 

Before Ovi can finish, the swinging door across from the stands opens and out comes the Stanley Cup and holding it-

“Shit, it’s really him,” Tom says in awe. 

Richards is a bit smaller in person than Mike thought he’d be, probably around the same size Mike is. He’s smiling wide, messy curls hiding underneath a toque and he’s dressed down in a Rangers hoodie that has probably seen better days. 

“Boys and girls and babes, Mr. Mike Richards,” Ovi announces, and there’s a loud cheer when Richards lifts the Cup above his head. 

“Thanks for having me, guys,” Richards says and even from the stands, Mike can see the crinkles around his eyes. They make his stomach swoop ridiculously. “Now, who wants to touch the Cup?”

The roar in their little rink is still not enough to mask the sound of Mike’s heart beating in his ears. 

\--

It’s organized chaos at the rink. 

There’s no structure to the day at Ovi’s request. It’s all open skate style, some of the kids having turns taking pictures with the Cup while others participate in a free skate with Richards. Some of the kids are just taking loops around the rink while others pass around pucks. 

Mike stays on the ice with Tom, trying not to be too obvious about how he’s watching Richards playing keep away with some of the kids. He’s probably not doing a great job, though, which he realizes when Tom comes to a sharp stop next to him, spraying him with ice and snow. 

“You’re staring,” Tom says while Mike wipes at his shirt with a glare.

“I’m not,” Mike insists and Tom laughs loudly. 

“You totally are. Have you talked to him yet?”

“No,” Mike admits, face feeling hot. 

He is staring, not at all subtly, as Richards steals the puck from Sarah, leaving it obviously open to be taken by Dante, who passes it to Leo from one of the afternoon sessions. Richards makes a dramatic show at being surprised, causing the kids to giggle and cheer and high five with glee. The entire scene warms Mike to his bones. 

“Dude, you gotta talk to him,” Tom says. “Like, you’re gonna regret it if you don’t.”

Which is not wrong, and Mike knows it. He’s just - nervous. 

“Yeah,” Mike says, looking at Tom briefly before turning back to Richards. 

What Mike’s not expecting is for Richards to be staring back. 

Mike’s face is burning when Richards smile at him, a crooked grin with those damn crinkles by his eyes that make Mike’s stomach swoop again. For a second, Mike thinks that he’s mistaken, that Richards is looking at someone else, but then he’s saying something to the kids, bidding them goodbye and skating in Mike and Tom’s direction. 

“Shit, he’s coming over here,” Tom says, confirming Mike’s suspicions. 

Richards comes to a gentle stop in front of them, holding out his hand to them. “Hey, you guys work here in the rink, right? I had a girl earlier absolutely talking my ear off about how much she loves the classes. It was super cute.”

Mike’s frozen, his heart beating out of control and his tongue feeling about three sizes too big for his mouth. He’s pretty sure he’s forgotten just about every single word he’s ever learned in his life, including his own name. 

Tom takes Richards’ hand first. “That’s so great to hear, Mr. Richards. We actually teach those classes.”

Richards wrinkles his nose up and laughs. “Mr. Richards makes me feel so old, jeez. You guys can call me Richie or Mike or whatever, it’s fine.”

“Me too,” Mike blurts out when Richards - no, Mike? Richie? - takes his hand. He immediately wants the ice to crack open and swallow him while when Richards and Tom both look at him weird. “I mean - Mike - you can call me that also - because that’s uh also my name. Or Latts is fine. Or -“

Richards looks like he’s about to laugh, holding it back with much more grace than Tom who’s red in the face and grinning like the Cheshire cat. Mike maybe wants to die. 

“You can be Mike and I’ll be Richie, then,” Richards says when Mike lets go of his hand. It’s gentle and teasing and even then Mike still definitely wants to die. 

“You’re not Mike also, are you?” he adds to Tom who finally lets out a loud laugh. 

“No, I’m Tom, or Willy is fine,” Tom says. 

“Well, Tom, Mike, it was really nice to meet you guys,” Richie says with another smile. “I’ll be around for a while after Phil leaves with the Cup, and I’d love to hang out with you guys for a bit.”

Mike’s not sure if it’s just in his head, but it feels like Richie is looking straight at him. It makes him hot under the collar to have most of Richie’s attention on him like this. Mike never imagined to be in this position - meeting Mike Richards, hearing that Mike Richards would like to _hang out_ with him. 

“That would be great,” Tom says, answering for the both of them. Mike is still in shock when Richie skates away. 

\--

For what it’s worth, Tom doesn’t bring up Mike’s embarrassing encounter with Richie, but that could be because Mike completely avoids him for the last half hour of the workshop. 

Instead, Mike surrounds himself with the kids, organizing a few of them into a small pick-up game. Tom takes goal for Sarah’s team and Ovi puts himself in the other net. Richie ends up joining them, playing on Ovi’s team while Sarah enthusiastically insists Mike has to be on hers. 

It’s light and fun, everyone obviously going easy on the kids, letting them steal the puck and letting in easy goals to see their enthusiastic cellies. 

Mike and Tom’s team wins, Ovi flopping over dramatically in the goal after Mike sneaks one in five-hole. Mike finds himself buried under a pile of kids coming in to celebrate the win, and he’s laughing so hard that he’s in stitches, genuinely struggling to get out from under them.

“Okay, okay, I think it’s time to let Coach Mike breathe a little,” Tom says, laughing and picking kids up easily enough despite some protests. 

“We’re celebrating like real hockey players,” Sarah insists as Tom grabs her hand to haul her up, and Tom shakes his head.

“Heck yeah you are, but Mike can’t stay under there forever.”

Mike’s just lying there for a second, still giggling and trying to catch his breath. The ice is cold as it seeps into the back of his hoodie, but he can’t seem to do much about it.

“Need a hand?” 

It’s Richie, standing over Mike with an amused smile. He holds out his hand, and Mike takes it, face flaming hot. 

“Thanks,” Mike says. Richie’s hand is warm despite the chill of the rink and Mike’s stuck between not wanting to let it go and not wanting to hold on too long in fear of making things awkward.

Richie ends up letting go first and Mike tries not to feel too disappointed. “That was a fun game,” Richie says. “Those kids are awesome. I’m pretty sure that one girl got in a slash hard enough to bruise.”

“Sarah’s great - tough as nails,” Mike says, beaming. He always loves bragging about his students, pride welling in his chest immediately. “It’s so awesome working with them in the summer. Definitely the best thing I do all year.”

“Yeah, I can tell you love it,” Richie says with a smile. “They deserve an instructor as passionate as you.”

Mike’s sure he’s never going to stop blushing, at least not anytime soon. His face is probably going to stay this temperature forever, especially if Richie doesn’t stop grinning him, all soft and sincere.

Mike’s saved from bumbling through a thank you by Tom skating up to them, bumping his hip against Mike’s and making him stumble a little. Mike glares at him but doesn’t complain. 

“Ovi wants us all for a picture,” Tom says, “and then it’s time to say goodbye to the Cup.”

“That went by way too fast.” Mike pouts and Richie laughs.

“It always does,” he says. “But, c’mon. No reason to miss this picture. You don’t want to forget this day.”

As he skates after Richie to the middle of the rink, Mike is pretty sure that there’s nothing that could make him forget this day.

\--

It doesn’t take all too long for the ice to clear out after the Cup goes back into its case. Mike and Tom clear the equipment up with practiced ease, and, just as promised, Richie’s still there in their staff room when they leave the ice.

It’s so weird seeing Richie among the fraying couches and well-worn tables of their staff room. He’s just there, looking at the pictures on the wall of teams they’ve hosted and classes they taught. The whole thing is surreal, like something out of a dream that Mike would have and Tom would make fun of him for.

“This seems like a cool place to work,” Richie says sincerely, taking a seat on the couch when he notices Tom and Mike come in.

“We have fun,” Tom agrees, taking the one chair and leaving Mike to sit in the seat next to Richie. Mike’s sure he did it on purpose.

The couch is small and they’re both former hockey players, so it’s a bit of a squeeze. It probably wouldn’t be so bad if he was sitting next to Tom, but Mike is hyper-aware of the fact that it’s _Mike Richards_ he’s sitting next to and _Mike Richards_ whose arm just brushed against his and oh god it’s _Mike Richards_ whose knee he just accidentally bumped with his own. Richie doesn’t seem uncomfortable, though, so Mike stays where he is.

Richie asks them question after question, about what they do at the rink, about going to school in DC, about hockey. He seems genuinely interested when Tom slips in a comment about Mike’s time in the ECHL, even though Mike tries to brush it off as nothing. Mike doesn’t like talking about his failed attempts at pro-hockey, and his short-lived career seems particularly pathetic when talking to someone who’s won actual Stanley Cups.

“You should be proud of yourself for making it that far,” Richie says sincerely. “Professional hockey is professional hockey - it doesn’t matter if it’s the ECHL or NHL. So many guys never get there, but you did.”

“I really wasn’t that good,” Mike mumbles, but Richie doesn’t seem to want to hear it.

“But you were good, or you wouldn’t have made it as far as you did,” Richie insists, and Mike just blushes, trying to change the subject.

They talk for a couple of hours, until Ovi comes in and mentions they have to start closing up the rink since no one else is coming in for the day. Ovi’s presence is a jarring reminder of where they are, that this isn’t just a dream and that Richie is actually here at Mike’s rink, shooting the shit with him and Tom like they’re old friends.

“I’ve probably overstayed my welcome a bit,” Richie says with a sheepish smile. “Sorry for keeping you guys.”

“Dude, not at all,” Tom says, standing up and taking Richie’s hand when it’s offered. “This has been, like, the coolest thing that’s ever happened to either of us. We appreciate you coming out here.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Mike agrees, taking Richie’s hand after Tom. He feels his stomach sinking a little - there’s no way he wants this moment - this _day -_ to end.

Way too soon, Ovi drags Tom out to close up, and Mike’s about to follow when Richie stops him with a hand on his arm.

“Hold on, Mike,” he says and Mike stops. They’re alone, just the two of them in the staff room. Never in a million years did Mike ever expect to find himself alone in any room with Richie.

Mike waits patiently for Richie to continue, and he does so with a nervous smile. “So, I’m actually in town here for a couple more days, and I’d really like to see you again before I leave.”

Mike pauses because Richie definitely did not just say what Mike thinks he said. “See me, as in -?” he asks, stopping because he doesn’t even know how to finish the sentence.

This time, it’s Richie’s turn to blush and, fuck, this is absolutely not happening. “See you, as in I’d like to take you out for dinner tomorrow night, if that’s okay with you.”

Yeah, no, this is _definitely_ not happening. Mike Richards did not just ask him to dinner. He wonders when he’s going to wake up from this dream, because it’s one he’s had before. 

Richie’s face falls a little at Mike’s silence and he says, “If you don’t want to, that’s fine. Sorry if I was being too forward. I just thought-”

“No,” Mike says, and Richie’s face falls even more before Mike adds, “No, I mean, you’re not being too forward. And yes, I’d like to get dinner. With you. I’m definitely okay with that.”

“Oh, okay, great,” Richie says, smiling in relief. “Here, let me give you my phone number-”

Mike hands over his phone in stunned silence, his heart beating hummingbird fast in his chest. Mike Richards is giving him his phone number.

“You can text me your address,” Richie says, “I’ll come pick you up tomorrow night at eight.”

“Sure,” Mike says a bit weakly. He feels a bit stunned, like he’s on the receiving end of one those open ice hits that knock the wind out of a guy and leave him lying on the ice trying to catch his breath. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” Richie says with a grin. He leaves Mike holding his phone loosely in his grip and wondering what the hell just happened.

\--

Tom walks with Mike to his car after they close up the rink. He’s rambling about the day, but Mike barely registers any of it, his head stuck in a haze.

“Dude, that was like, unreal,” Tom says a bit breathlessly. “Like better than I imagined. Richie is so _cool_. I’m actually impressed you didn’t completely lose your shit, because there were a few times when -”

Mike interrupts him, leaning against the door of his car. The handle is pressing uncomfortably into his back, but he doesn’t really care at the moment. “I think Richie asked me on a date.”

Tom pauses, eyes wide. “What?”

“He asked me to dinner, told me to text him my address, and said he’d pick me up tomorrow night. That’s - that’s a date right?”

“That’s - yeah, that’s definitely a date,” Tom confirms. He grins a little manically. “Latts-”

“I know,” Mike says, tipping his head back against his car. Maybe if he hits his head hard enough, he’ll wake up back in his bed back home and it’ll be this morning again. “Is this really happening?”

“Apparently,” Tom says, and Mike is so glad that for once he’s not chirping Mike about his thing for Riche. However he does ask, “What are you gonna wear?”

Mike groans, closing his eyes. Fuck, he hadn’t thought about that. “I’m so screwed. Why did I agree to this? Maybe I should just cancel.”

“No, absolutely not,” Tom insists, startling Mike by putting his hands on his shoulders. “No way you’re throwing away this opportunity. You’re going on a date with Mike Richards, Latts. And you’re going to look hot and he’s going to take you home and fuck your brains out.”

“Dude-” Mike says, face turning hot, but Tom isn’t hearing it.

“No, I got this. I’m gonna make sure you’re ready for this date,” Tom says, eyes bright and full of determination. Mike is pretty sure he’s never seen Tom this passionate about, well, anything.

“Okay, yeah, thanks,” Mike says warily and doesn’t argue when Tom gets in his car instead of going back to his own.

\--

Mike hates wearing suits - they’re always just a little tight because Mike’s shoulders are broad and his ass is huge, and it’s so much money to get one perfectly tailored.

“I still don’t understand why I have to wear a suit,” Mike says, pulling awkwardly on the hem of the jacket. He’ll have to take it off as soon as he gets to dinner, he thinks, because it’s way too restrictive around his arms. “I have those khakis-”

“I told you, he’s probably gonna take you somewhere super nice,” Tom says, sighing loudly. They’ve gone over this already a few times. “Your ass looks great in those khakis but you gotta wear the suit if you’re going somewhere upscale.”

“I can’t believe Mike Richards asked you on a date,” Andre says. He’s sprawled across Mike’s bed, watching in fascination as Tom straightens the lapels of Mike’s jacket and tightens his tie. “Did he like, hit his head during the playoffs, or-?”

“Fuck off,” Mike says, but he’s too nervous to put much heat behind it.

“Don’t listen to Andre, he’s just jealous because he’s been trying to get Brooks to sleep with him for weeks and keeps getting rejected,” Tom says and Andre sits up quickly, face red.

“It’s because the gym has a strict relationship policy-”

“Then stop trying to sleep with him-”

Mike tunes them out. He’s checking his hair in the mirror one last time when his phone buzzes against the table. Seeing Richie’s name on the screen is so weird, but Mike doesn’t have time to dwell on it because the simple _I’m here_ sends his heart into a frenzy. 

“Fuck,” Mike says softly. He’s so not ready for this.

“Is he here?” Andre asks, interrupting whatever chirp Tom’s in the middle of.

Mike nods, his stomach turning.

“Listen, you look great. You’ve got this,” Tom promises him, “go get ‘em.” He slaps Mike’s ass in encouragement, and oddly enough, it does help a little.

Mike’s still nervous, though, as he makes his way past the broken elevator and down the stairs of their apartment building. He’s a bit out of breath when he gets outside and finds Richie there waiting for him.

Tom made a good call on the suit, apparently, because Richie is in one too, though his looks about a hundred times nicer than Mike’s. He’s leaning against his car, and he smiles, straightening up when he sees Mike approaching him.

“You look nice,” Richie says. Mike knows he doesn’t, and that it’s just something you’re supposed to say on a date - if this really is a date - but it’s still nice to hear.

“You do too,” Mike says, because Richie does. His suit is a deep navy blue and tailored to fit him perfectly. He’s shaved for the night and his hair is perfectly in place and, fuck, he even smells amazing. 

Richie’s smile grows, his eyes crinkling at the sides with it. Mike feels a little dizzy because _he_ made Richie smile like that.

“Shall we get going?” Richie asks, and Mike nods. Richie holds the door open for him like a gentleman and, not for the first time, Mike can’t help but think about that not a single part of this feels real at all.

\--

Mike feels horribly out of place at the restaurant. When he and Tom want to splurge on a nice dinner, they go to The Cheesecake Factory and share an entree. This is absolutely not The Cheesecake Factory.

“I don’t even understand what half these things are,” Mike admits, putting down his menu in frustration.

They’re in a secluded corner of the restaurant where it’s quiet and intimate. There are actual candles on the table and the silverware looks new and polished. Richie’s already ordered them a bottle of wine that they can’t yet because they need to let it breathe. Mike doesn’t even know what that means, because usually the wine he and Tom buy comes in a box.

“I’ll order for you, don’t worry,” Richie says. His foot brushes against Mike’s under the table. Mike wonders if it’s just an accident, or if he’s doing it to calm Mike down. If it’s the latter, it’s not working, because it just makes Mike’s heart race faster.

“I’ve never been to a place like this before,” Mike admits. “Willy and I mostly just eat at home. We ate nothing but KD for a week straight after moving into our apartment.”

Mike doesn’t know why he says that - it makes him sound like a disaster. He and Tom have moved past the days of their empty fridge and boxes of KD, even if they’re not quite at the level of upscale restaurants.

Richie laughs, loudly. A couple at a nearby table glares at them and Richie ignores it. “That sounds like me and Carts when we were in Philly. I don’t know how we survived those first couple of seasons. It took us a while to get our shit together.”

Mike’s heard stories, of course, about Richie’s time in Philly, about the partying and the late nights and the controversy. It’s hard to imagine it now. Richie seems so put together, not at all out of place in this fancy restaurant where some of the entrees cost more than what Mike makes in a single shift. He supposes that’s what happens when you get older, but Mike can’t ever picture himself having his life quite so figured out.

Richie does end up ordering for the both of them when the waiter comes around - pasta for himself and a steak that’s cooked to perfection for Mike. It’s possibly the best thing he’s ever eaten, and Mike doesn’t ask for the price because he’s afraid of what it might be.

“You should try a bite of this,” Richie says, holding out his fork to Mike. Mike tries not to blush as Richie feeds him one of the soft, buttery shells off his plate.

“So good,” Mike all but moans, and Richie laughs at his response.

“Is it better than KD?” he teases.

“Nothing’s better than KD,” Mike says, even though they both know that this is miles and miles beyond boxed pasta. 

As they eat, Richie asks more questions. They’re about everything; Mike’s family, his friends, his jobs, what he’s studying in school. Mike doesn’t like talking about himself, usually, but Richie seems genuinely interested, sometimes interjecting with stories of his own. It makes it easy to forget that he’s Mike Richards and not just Richie, who is kind and earnest and laughs too loudly at Mike’s stupid jokes.

“Would you like dessert also?” Richie asks as they finish up their meal. Sometime during the night, his foot came to rest against Mike’s, and his ankle hooks around Mike’s for a moment, making Mike’s face turn hot.

“Oh, we don’t have to-” Mike starts, but Richie cuts him off.

“No, it’s nothing,” he insists. “The chocolate cake here is to die for, and I have a bit of a sweet tooth, so I’m always looking for an excuse to get it.”

“Sure, then,” Mike says and Richie flags down their waiter with a large grin.

The cake is wonderful, rich and moist, and the sound that comes out of Mike’s mouth when he takes the first bite is a bit embarrassing. 

“See, told you it was good,” Richie says. He giggles when he looks up at Mike, “You have a little-”

“What?” Mike asks.

He’s surprised when Richie reaches across the table, wiping a bit of frosting off the corner of Mike’s mouth. Mike’s entire face feels like it’s on fire, like the time Ovi had made him do a whole row of vodka shots before a party. It only gets worse when Richie licks the frosting off his finger. He never breaks eye contact with Mike.

“Thanks,” Mike says weakly. There’s a pool of heat in his stomach that he’s desperately trying to ignore.

“No problem,” Richie says, shrugging it off like he hasn’t just doused Mike’s entire body in flames with that one simple action. “Are you ready to get out of here?”

“Yeah, sure,” Mike agrees, stomach lurching a little. Mike knows exactly where he wants this night to go next, but it’s hard to tell if that’s where they’re actually heading.

Richie pays the bill. Usually, Mike would try to front at least half of it, but he knows that this one dinner is probably enough to bleed him dry. Just this one time, he lets Richie take care of it.

\--

Richie ends up dropping Mike back home, even though it’s not that late. Mike had definitely hoped for a different end to the night, but he doesn’t complain when Richie walks him to the door.

“I’m here for one more night if you’d like to see me again,” Richie says, like there’s really even a question on whether or not Mike wants to see him.

“I open at the gym tomorrow and work a late shift at the rink,” Mike says, “but maybe during the day we can do something?”

“How about lunch? It’ll be my treat,” Richie says and Mike shakes his head.

“Oh no, not after tonight. You’ve already done enough,” he says, and Richie laughs.

“I insist,” he says. It’s not pushy, but Mike has a feeling he isn’t going to change his mind.

“Fine,” Mike says, and then bites his lip nervously. He blurts out, “This was a date right?”

Richie laughs again, more loudly this time. He takes Mike’s hands in his, and Mike wishes that his palms weren’t so damn sweaty. “I took you out to one of the nicest restaurants in town and paid for dinner. We shared a dessert. I fed you food off my plate. What else did I have to do to make it obvious it was a date?”

“I do most of those things with Willy also,” Mike says, but he can’t keep the smile off his face.

Richie doesn’t reply, instead closing the gap between them with a kiss. His lips are dry and warm against Mike, just a little bit chapped. He tastes sweet like their dessert, and even though the kiss is chaste, it’s enough to make Mike’s heart feel like it’s going to beat right out of his chest.

“Do you do that with Willy also?” Richie asks when they part, and Mike grins, big and dopey.

“Well, once, when we were super drunk-”

Richie groans and kisses him again. “Shut up. I’m gonna come pick you up at noon tomorrow. We’ll just go into town, so dress comfortable.”

“Okay,” Mike says, “and thanks for tonight. I had a great time.”

“Me too,” Richie says. He kisses Mike one last time and Mike can’t wipe the smile off his face as he goes inside.

\--

Opening shift means that Mike is up at 4:45 and nearly falling back asleep by the time it’s 8:30 and Andre’s joining him at the front desk. It’s a slow morning, only the regulars filtering in through the doors. Mike’s alone up front, the first few hours dragging until Brooks gets in at 7:30. He only chats for a little while though until going back into the personal trainer’s office and then Mike’s alone again until Andre’s shift starts.

“How was your date?” Andre asks as he soon as he through the door. He hasn’t even bothered to clock in yet, immediately coming in and taking a seat on the stool next to Mike’s.

Mike can’t help the smile on his face. “Yeah, it was good,” he says. “We’re going out again for lunch.”

Andre punches his arm lightly. “That’s freaking awesome. Dude, you’re dating a Stanley Cup Champion. How cool is that?”

“I don’t think we’re like _dating_ dating,” Mike says, blushing. “But it is pretty cool,” he agrees.

They have a flurry of people coming in after Andre gets settled, and Mike manages to clear up someone’s missed payment and renew someone’s membership by the time their operations manager, Nicky, comes in at 9.

Mike’s surprised when Nicky stops at the desk instead of going straight to his office. His hair’s tucked under a beanie even though it’s nearly ninety degrees outside and he smiles at Mike wolfishly.

“Ovi told me you had a date last night,” he says.

Mike’s entire face is on fire and Andre cackles next to him loudly. Mike forgets sometimes that they’re friends, even though it’s because of Nicky that he got the job at the rink in the first place.

“I did,” Mike confirms.

“Was it really with Mike Richards?” Nicky asks, one of his brows lifted in curiosity.

“It was,” Mike says, face still hot. Andre’s at least trying to hold his laughter now, but it’s not particularly working.

Nicky’s expressions are always a bit intense, but it seems especially so as his eyes search over Mike’s face. Mike has no idea what he’s looking for, but he must find it, because he smiles again.

“Good on you,” Nicky says, clapping Mike on the shoulder. “Just be careful,” he adds. He doesn’t wait for a response before heading to his office finally.

“That was so weird,” Mike mumbles and Andre finally lets out a steady stream of giggles.

“Nicky is always weird,” he says. “I would know, I lived with him.”

“Yeah but that was, like, weird even for Nicky. What did he mean by ‘be careful’?”

Andre shrugs, collecting himself. “Dunno. Guess ‘cause Richards is famous? Or something? Who knows?”

Mike has no idea if that’s what Nicky meant. He tries to push it to the back of his mind so he can get through the next hour of his shift in one piece.

\--

Richie picks Mike up right at noon. In the daytime, Richie’s tiny sports car sticks out in the modest neighborhood where Mike lives.

“This is a sweet ride by the way,” Mike mentions, slipping into the front seat. “Bet it never breaks down like my piece of shit.”

“Wouldn’t know,” Richie shrugs, “it’s just a rental. Hi, by the way.”

“Hey,” Mike says, and he smiles when Richie leans over the gear shift to kiss him softly, his hand on Mike’s face. “I like it a lot better when you’re dressed like this. It makes you look less-”

“Pretentious?” Richie asks, looking down at his simple v-neck and straight jeans.

“I was gonna say it makes you look less out of my league,” Mike admits with a faint blush. 

Richie frowns dropping his hand so it’s resting by the side of Mike’s neck. He rubs soothing circles into Mike’s collarbone. “Trust me when I say I am not out of your league at all.”

Mike leans back in his seat, Richie’s hand falling away with the movement. “Only one of us has the fancy car and NHL-level salary and it’s not me, so.”

“Those things don’t mean anything,” Richie says a bit stiffly. “And they definitely don’t put me out of your league.”

“It does mean something when you can afford to take your dates out to dinner at five star restaurants and I can’t afford to take a sick day from work in case I miss rent,” Mike says bluntly. “We lead incredibly different lives and that’s just - it’s always going to be like that and it will always mean something to me.”

Richie purses his lips, taking Mike’s hand across the console. Mike doesn’t pull away, which seems to comfort Richie. “No, you’re right, I’m sorry. Those things do matter, and it probably says something - and not something good - about me that I can pretend that they don’t. Just, I don’t want you to think that I’m better than you or that I think less of you because I can afford nice things. Because I absolutely don’t.”

Richie seems sincere in his apology, and Mike relaxes a little. He squeezes Richie’s hand, saying, “It’s okay. I’m sorry too - I made you sound like kind of a jerk, which you haven’t been at all. Let’s just go and enjoy the day. We don’t need to talk about this anymore.”

“Okay,” Richie says softly. He kisses Mike again, this time in apology.

When Richie turns the key in the ignition, Mike tries not to think about how the engine purrs to life with no stutter.

\--

“We’re going shopping?” Mike asks warily. He had assumed that they would go straight to lunch, not take a detour a first.

“You don’t like shopping?” Richie asks. Mike can’t see his eyes behind his dark shades, but he doesn’t miss the eyebrow raises at him.

Mike shrugs. They’re at some outdoor mall a little bit outside of town. Mike didn’t even know it existed, and all the shops boast brand names that Mike can’t afford in a million years. “Shopping’s hard when you have a fat ass and a low budget.”

“Well, like I said, I can afford nice things,” Richie says, grabbing Mike’s hand. Mike doesn’t catch the name of the shop he gets pulled into, but the air conditioned chill inside is a nice reprieve from the summer heat. “And lucky for you, I like to spend my money on people.”

“You really don’t have to,” Mike says, looking around him. The store’s brightly lit, all the furniture and paneling on the walls made of cherry wood. The air smells sharp and woodsy, like men’s cologne. “Is this a suit place?”

“Yeah,” Richie says. He still has Mike’s hand in his, and he leads him to a rack closer to the back of the store. “This place makes great pieces and does tailoring too. I want you in something a little bit nicer when we go out next time.”

Mike bristles, dropping Richie’s hand sharply, like he’s been stung. He doesn’t like the sick rolling in his stomach. “What happened to ‘I don’t think less of you’?” Mike asks blandly, crossing his arms across his chest.

Richie looks at him sheepishly. “Shit, no, that’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean, then?” Mike asks, voice low. 

Mike has a temper and he knows it, and maybe it’s not as bad as when he played hockey and the wrong look or wrong hit had him dropping gloves and sitting in the box, but he can feel it flaring. It’s worse when he’s on the defensive, and that’s exactly what’s happening now. He doesn’t want to show Richie how hurt he is that Richie’s all but confirmed Mike’s worries that he’s not good enough, especially not when Mike was so honest about it just a little bit before.

“Sorry, it came out wrong,” Richie says with a frustrated sigh. “I just meant that every guy deserves a nice suit, alright? You look great in whatever, babe, just thought you might want something you feel more comfortable in.”

Mike deflates a little, and he drops his arms, loosening his stance. “Oh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. He still feels a bit on edge, but he feels embarrassed too, like he overreacted.

Richie takes a step closer to him, and Mike lets him take his hand. He blushes when Richie kisses his knuckles sweetly. “Listen, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. But I meant what I said - I like buying things for people, treating them right. And I want to treat you to this because you deserve it. But I also like you in what you’re wearing now and I liked you in what you wearing last night and I just - I like _you,_ Mike, so if you wanna get out of here, then we can.”

“You really like me?” Mike asks, because that’s the only part of Richie’s apology that seems to stick in his head. He knows the question sounds stupid, but he has to ask it. 

“Yeah, you idiot, I do,” Richie says, rolling his eyes. “I wouldn’t be doing all this for you if I didn’t. You think I give my phone number to every cute guy at the rinks I visit?”

“Who knows, you might,” Mike says. The joke is weak, but Richie laughs anyway.

“Well, I don’t,” he promises. “Just you.”

“Okay,” Mike says. “And I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have overreacted like that.”

“No, probably not,” Richie says, and Mike laughs.

“So, are you gonna help me pick out a suit, or what? Because I have no idea what I’m doing. I think my mom bought me the one I was wearing last night,” Mike says, turning back to the rack Richie had led them to.

“Trust me, I could tell,” Richie says, but he’s smiling as he runs his fingers down the rack, pulling out a few pieces for Mike to try on.

\--

Richie waits patiently as Mike tries stuff on, discussing quietly with the tailor as Mike stands in front of the mirror about what needs to be tucked in and what needs to be loosened. Mike doesn’t even fully understand what they’re saying, and he’s comfortable letting Richie take the lead.

“Your ass looks great in that one,” Richie says, eyeing Mike up and down with a dark look in his eyes as Mike steps out of the changing room and in front of the mirrors.

“This suit costs more than my rent,” Mike says, wrinkling his nose, but he has to admit, the lighter colors does do wonders for his ass. 

“So do all the others then - I think that’s one of the cheaper ones,” Richie says. “You have to get it, though, it looks great.”

“Richie, this is way too much,” Mike says, frowning into the mirror. “You said that about everything I’ve tried on so far.”

Mike’s surprised when Richie laughs, and it must surprise the tailor, also, judging by the pin he sticks right into Mike’s leg. “It’s not my fault you look great in everything, babe,” Richie says and Mike can feel his face turn pink.

They end up compromising in the end, Mike getting a classic black suit and the lighter gray one along with a couple new dress shirts. Mike knows nothing about clothes - his wardrobe consists of t-shirts and jeans and a couple pairs of khakis, but he can tell when something fits nice and he’s confident that he looks good in everything that Richie’s picked out for him.

Richie pulls him into a couple more stores, buying Mike way too many things he doesn’t need. He seems to enjoy picking things out for Mike, though, and Mike admits he likes the looks Richie gives him when he walks out in something that looks particularly good. 

“This is way too much,” Mike complains again when they sit down for lunch. It’s probably the fourth or fifth time he’s said it, and Richie just rolls his eyes every time.

“I’m never taking you anywhere again if you’re going to be like this,” Richie says, opening up the menu. 

“Good, you’ve already spent-”

“Way too much, you told me.”

The restaurant Richie’s picked for lunch is a lot more low key than the one the night before, which Mike sincerely appreciates. They sit outside, the sun warm on Mike’s face as he peruses the menu. He ends up getting a sandwich and a smoothie and he and Richie share a dessert again, because apparently Richie wasn’t kidding about his sweet tooth. 

“Do you have anything going on after work tonight?” Richie asks around bites of rich New York-style cheesecake. 

“No, I’ll be getting out kind of late, though, since I’m working Teen Night,” Mike says. Richie’s ankle is hooked around his under the table again. Mike loves how tactile he is. 

“Do you want to come over to my hotel after, then? My flight back to Kenora isn’t until tomorrow afternoon so we can have a late dinner together.”

Mike’s stomach twists with nervous excitement. Him and Richie, alone in Richie’s hotel room. “Yeah, definitely,” Mike says, hoping he doesn’t sound too eager. 

Richie smiles and feeds Mike a piece of cheesecake that melts readily in his mouth. “Great. Wear that one shirt that we bought when you come over, the one with the stripes. You look good in that one.”

Mike nods and tries not to blush.

\--

Mike’s not surprised to see that Richie is staying in one of the nicest hotels in town. It feels like the restaurant all over again, with Mike feeling horribly out of place as he sits in the lobby, tugging nervously at the hem of his shirt as he waits for Richie to come and get him. 

Everything in the hotel is sleek and modern and expensive, and Mike’s nicest pair of jeans has a hole fraying in the back pocket that he can’t quite hide with his shirt.

Mike’s relieved when Richie steps off the elevator. He’s wearing the same outfit as that morning, but with his hair done a little nicer and his face cleanly-shaven. Mike’s glad he went home and showered before coming here, because working concessions at the rink always leaves him smelling like the floor of a movie theater. Despite what Richie’s said, Mike doesn’t want to give him any more reminders that they come from two very, very different worlds.

“Hey, you look nice,” Richie says in greeting, pulling Mike in for a quick kiss. Mike can’t help but smile.

“Oh, this old thing? I just threw it on,” he jokes, and Richie rolls his eyes.

Richie’s on one of the top floors of the hotel, a suite with a kitchenette and plush furniture. The whole thing screams luxury, but it feels different from the stuffy lobby of the hotel. There’s a pair of shoes lying haphazard on the floor, a hoodie draped over the armchair, empty beer bottles on the coffee table in front of the wall-mounted flat screen. 

“You don’t have room service clean after you?” Mike asks, as he takes a seat on the couch.

“I don’t like them going through my things,” Richie says, taking a couple of beers out of the fridge. “Anyway, I can take care of myself.”

Richie hands Mike one of the open beers and takes a seat next to him on the couch. He’s close, his thigh pressed up against Mike’s and his arm around Mike’s shoulders. Mike leans into him further.

Mike’s not sure who kisses who first, just that one second they’re sitting there, and the next he has Richie’s mouth on his. Richie kisses softly at first - not tentative, just chaste, a hand coming up to touch Mike’s face. Mike doesn’t want chaste, though. He doesn’t want slow.

Mike kisses back roughly, one of his hands fisting in the front of Richie’s shirt. Richie doesn’t stop Mike from climbing into his lap. He runs his hands over Mike’s shoulders, down his back, coming to rest on his hips. Mike’s half-hard already, just from this, just from kissing and Richie’s hands on him.

“You know I’ve wanted to blow you since I was sixteen?” Mike asks, his voice low, and Richie groans.

“How many times have you thought about it?” Richie asks. He starts to leave a trail of open kisses down Mike’s neck. His mouth is so hot, but Mike shivers when Richie scrapes his teeth against where Mike’s collar bone is exposed above the low collar of his shirt.

“Countless,” Mike says. “I’ve had dreams about it, jerked off to the thought of it. I’ve never wanted someone like I want you.”

Richie lets out a low whine when Mike kisses him again and makes a small noise of protest when he stops - until he notices that it’s only because Mike’s getting on his knees in front of him. 

They get Richie’s pants and briefs off hastily, Richie kicking them off when they come to pool at his ankles. Richie’s hard, his dick thick and curved, the tip of it red. Mike’s mouth waters a little.

Mike strokes Richie’s dick a few times to judge his reactions. Richie closes his eyes, his head tipping back against the couch. Mike loves the curve of Richie’s neck from this angle, the smooth column of his throat. He kisses up Richie’s thighs before licking a thick stripe up the underside of Richie’s dick.

Richie’s hands come down to fist in Mike’s hair when Mike takes the tip of Richie’s dick into his mouth and he sucks lightly before taking more of him down. Richie’s dick is a heavy weight on Mike’s tongue, the taste of him salty and bitter. 

“You’re so good to me, Mike. You look so good, dressed up for me, on your knees for me,” Richie says in between breathy gasps and Mike moans around his dick.

Mike’s knees burn and his jaw aches, but he blows Richie through it, taking Richie’s dick far enough down his throat that it makes him choke. Richie’s hands are tight in his hair, pulling at the short locks. By the end of it, Mike gets messy, spit dribbling down his chin as he bobs his head, wrapping his hand around the base of Richie’s dick when he can’t take him down anymore.

Richie comes in his mouth without warning and Mike sucks him through that too. Mike’s own dick is achingly hard in his jeans. He’s always loved going down on people - guys and girls - seeing their reactions, knowing that he’s gotten them off just with his mouth. Mike likes making people feel good, and he likes the way Richie looks now, his face pink and his breathing heavy. Mike loves knowing that _he_ made Richie look like that.

Mike climbs back on the couch, Richie pushing him down to lay across it. Mike complies easily, lets Richie kiss the taste of himself out of Mike’s mouth.

Richie loses his shirt as Mike unbuttons and kicks off his jeans, but Richie stops Mike when he goes to take his own shirt off.

“No, keep it on. I told you you look good in it,” Richie says and Mike nods, biting his bottom lip.

“Yeah - yeah, okay.”

Richie kisses Mike as he jerks him off, but it doesn’t take long for Mike to become slack-jawed, just breathing heavily against Richie’s mouth. His hips stutter as Richie strokes him, and soon Mike’s coming, his whole body relaxing with his release.

There’s come on Mike’s stomach, just missing his the hem of his shirt where it’s rucked up. Richie cleans him up with his own shirt, throwing it somewhere on the floor afterward. 

“Did that live up to your dreams?” Richie asks, laughing against Mike’s mouth, and Mike smiles when he kisses him.

“It was so much better,” he says honestly and he’s content to just lay around with Richie for a while after.

\--

They move to Richie’s room after a while, Mike losing his shirt along the way despite a small protest from Richie. They fool around a bit more, Richie going down on Mike and making him come so hard he sees stars in his vision. 

Afterwards, they turn on the TV, but Mike’s not even sure what they’re watching, the sounds muted as he dozes with his head on Richie’s chest and Richie tracing patterns into his back.

Mike’s almost completely asleep when Richie says, “My flight back to Kenora is in the morning.”

Mike’s stomach drops immediately. He’d forgotten that Richie was leaving, that this wasn’t something that he’d give every day. That it was brief and fleeting like one of his dreams. “Shit, I forgot.”

“I almost did too,” Richie admits.

“Do you have to go?” Mike asks, burying face deeper in Richie’s chest. He doesn’t want to look at Richie’s face, thinks it might make everything harder.

Richie chuckles softly. “Yeah, I do, unfortunately. I have things to take care of back home.”

Mike doesn’t respond. The soft graze of Richie’s fingertips doesn’t feel as soothing anymore, instead it leaves Mike’s skin buzzing nervously.

“Come with me,” Richie says, breaking the silence. Mike does look up at that.

“Come with you,” he repeats flatly. “To Kenora?”

Richie nods, biting his bottom lip. “Yeah, just - just for a week maybe?”

Mike can picture it, the lake, the sun, lazy summer days. Richie. He wants it all so bad, but he knows he can’t just take off and leave like that.

“I have work, Richie,” Mike says softly. “And I can’t - I can’t afford to take time off like that. Who’s gonna pay my rent if I’m short at the end of the month? And don’t you dare say you can, because I won’t let you.”

Richie closes his mouth, mouth turned sheepishly. “You deserve a break, though, babe. Come on. A few days, then. That’s it. And I’ll put you on a plane right back. I don’t want to say goodbye to you yet.”

Mike doesn’t want to say goodbye yet either, not when the last few days have been better than he could’ve possible expected. He looks at Richie, the soft lines around his mouth, his mussed up hair and pleading eyes. Mike could probably afford to take a few days off. He could pick up extra shifts later, cover for people and pack in the hours closer to the end of the month.

“Okay, fine,” Mike says, “but just a few days.”

Richie beams, kissing Mike deeply.

Mike’s pretty sure that this isn’t the last time that it’s going to be hard for him to believe that all this is happening to him.

\--

It’s late when Mike gets back home, and he’s surprised to find the lights on in the living room, the TV playing softly through episodes of “Friday Night Lights.” Andre’s passed out on the couch, mouth open and snoring softly, but Tom’s still awake, and he smiles when Mike walks through the door.

“You have another date with Richie?”

“Yeah, sorry, I should’ve texted you after I got out of work,” Mike says, taking a seat next to Tom.

Their couch is an old sectional, something they found at Goodwill when they first moved into their apartment. It’s worn but soft and comfortable and Mike refuses to get rid of it even though they’d probably be able to afford something better if they saved up for it.

“Nah, it’s cool,” Tom says. “Just don’t leave me on babysitting duty by myself again,” he adds, nodding toward Andre.

Mike laughs. “You might have to handle it on your own for a couple more nights,” he says. “I’m gonna be going out of town for a few days.”

“Why?” Tom asks, frowning. He turns toward Mike fully. “Is everything okay? We have workshops at the rink tomorrow.”

“I know, but it’s only the one and you can cover it by yourself, right?” Mike asks. “And I’ve already called someone to cover my other shift the next day and was gonna call Nicky about my shifts at the gym in the morning.”

“I guess I can handle one day,” Tom says, shrugging. “Where are you going?”

Mike can’t help the smile that spreads across his face. “Richie asked me to go to Kenora with him.”

Mike’s surprised when Tom’s frown deepens. “You’re going all the way to Kenora? What the fuck?”

“Yeah,” Mike says, scooting a few inches away from Tom. His stomach twists uncomfortably. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Just, I know he’s like, Mike Richards or whatever, but you literally just met this guy and now you’re flying all the way to another country with him?”

“It’s not another country, it’s _Canada,_ dude. We’re fucking Canadian citizens,” Mike says, furrowing his brows. “And what the fuck happened to ‘I’m not letting you waste this opportunity’? You seemed pretty keen on this thing with Richie a few days ago.”

“Yeah, because I thought you guys were gonna like, fool around and then he’d be gone, and you’d have a cool story to tell about how you fucked your favorite hockey player, not that you’d be fucking, like, whisking off to Canada to follow him around like some lovesick puppy,” Tom says harshly.

Andre snuffles a little in his sleep but doesn’t wake up, and Mike gets to his feet, not wanting to take this further, not wanting to wake Andre up and get him involved.

“Fuck off,” he says, “I’m not - just fuck you, Tom. You don’t know what you’re talking about. That’s not what’s happening.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, stalking off to his room and slamming the door closed loudly. Mike’s breathing harshly, and he can feel his anger coursing through him. He tries to take a few deep breaths, to calm down his racing heart, but he keeps hearing Tom’s stupid voice in his head. 

“Fuck him,” Mike spits out, punching the wall recklessly. It doesn’t help, only makes his hand hurt like hell, and he knows his knuckles will probably be bruised in the morning.

It takes a few more minutes for Mike to calm down completely. He packs quickly and without much attention, thinking that the morning can’t come fast enough.

\--

It’s early when Richie picks Mike up. Andre is still asleep, one leg hanging off the couch, and the door to Tom’s room is closed, so Mike assumes he’s asleep too. He doesn’t leave a note, doesn’t text goodbye, just grabs his bag and heads downstairs to where Richie is waiting outside his building.

“Morning,” Richie says, kissing him sweetly. 

Mike still feels out of sorts, but kisses him back. He throws his things in the back seat before climbing into the car.

“What did you do to your hand?” Richie asks when Mike’s buckling in his seatbelt, and Mike blushes.

“Nothing,” he says, as Richie takes his hand, running his fingers softly over Mike’s knuckles. “I just - got into a fight with Willy.”

“What? Did you punch him?” Richie snorts and Mike shakes his head.

“I wish,” he mumbles, “um, no. I did punch my wall, though. Hurt like a bitch.”

Richie looks at him with concern, but doesn’t say anything, just kissing his knuckles before letting go of his hand. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Mike admits and Richie doesn’t push.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Let me know if you do later.”

Mike just nods, settling back in his seat as Richie drives them in the direction of the airport.

\--

It’s a long trip with a layover in Minnesota and another in Winnipeg. Mike’s never flown first class, though, and it’s unbelievably more comfortable than folding himself into the cramped seats in economy. 

They take a cab from the airport to Richie’s lakehouse, Richie letting Mike use the hotspot on his phone so he can text Nicky about having someone pick up shifts at the gym. Nicky agrees readily, mentioning that, _I don’t think you’ve ever taken a day off and have picked up more shifts than anyone who’s ever worked here. It’s cool to take a few days off. Have fun._

He doesn’t bother texting Tom, at least not yet.

Richie’s place is gorgeous, and Mike’s eyes widen as they pull up to the drive.

“I can’t believe you live here,” he says in awe, “this is fucking awesome. And right by the water too.”

“Yeah, I’ve had this place for a while, and it’s getting a lot more use these days,” Richie says, dropping his stuff in the front hall as they get in.

As soon as they’re inside, there’s the unmistakable sound of nails clicking against the hardwood floor, and a dark blur comes running into the room, right into Richie’s legs.

“Arnold, hey boy,” Richie says in excitement as his dog barks at him with enthusiasm. He’s licking Richie’s face as Richie tries to push him off, laughing.

Arnold comes to Mike next. Mike holds out his hand, letting Arnold sniff him. He must pass whatever test that dogs have in their mind, because Arnold licks his hand and lets Mike pet him, wagging his tail excitedly.

“He’s almost as cute as my dog, Walter,” Mike says and Richie looks affronted.

“Hard to believe, seeing as Arnold is the cutest dog in the world. Aren’t you, Arnold?” he says, the question coming out in a baby voice that Arnold answers with a bark.

Richie gives Mike a tour of the lake house, the kitchen, the in-home gym, the guest room that they both know Mike won’t be using. Mike doesn’t even drop his stuff off in there, instead taking it straight to Richie’s room, which is large and open with huge windows overlooking the lake.

“We’ve been traveling a lot, do you want to take a nap or anything?” Richie asks, wrapping his arms around Mike’s waist from behind. He noses at the soft spot behind Mike’s ear and his breath is hot on Mike’s skin.

“If you wanna stay in bed, I can think of a few other things to do instead,” Mike says and Richie laughs, his hands starting to run underneath the hem of Mike’s shirt.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he says, voice deep, and it sends shivers down Mike’s spine.

Mike drags Richie to the bed, knowing he wouldn’t mind if they didn’t leave it even once the next few days.

\--

Mike’s time in Kenora passes by in a blur of Richie and the lake and the sun hot on Mike’s back. They spend most of their time on the water, fishing and taking turns rubbing sunscreen on each other’s shoulders so they don’t burn. In the evenings, Richie grills them dinner on his deck and they eat outside, watching the sun go down. 

Mike doesn’t remember the last time he went on vacation, doesn’t remember the last time he did anything without worrying about bills or classes or work or _anything_. It’s the first time he’s felt truly relaxed in ages and he knows that Richie and his easy nature is a part of that.

After the sun goes down, they head back inside, watching movies one night, playing cards another. At night, they fuck in Richie’s huge bed, the windows wide open as Richie opens Mike up with thick fingers inside him. 

They sleep in Richie’s bed and Mike loves waking up in the morning with Richie pressed against his back, his arm around Mike’s waist.

It feels like way too soon that Mike is packing up his things for his flight back to DC in the morning. He wishes he could’ve stayed longer - the week that Richie had suggested or even a month or a year or forever. Days at the lake felt so disconnected from the reality that Mike does not want to go back to. He doesn’t want to wake up at 4:45AM to open the gym before 5:30 or stand around on his feet during Teen Nights at the rink or come to face-to-face with Tom and whatever harsh words he still has left to spit in Mike’s face. 

“Do you have to go?” Richie asks the last night, even though they both the know the answer. 

“Yeah, you know I do,” Mike says, even though he wishes he could just say fuck it and stay with Richie, here in the lake house, forever.

“Real life blows,” Richie says, which makes Mike laugh. 

Mike kisses him, slow and deep, and doesn’t think about how he doesn’t know when the next time he’ll see Richie is. 

“Thank you for this, by the way,” Mike says softly, leaning into Richie’s touch when he strokes a thumb over the curve of Mike’s cheekbone. “For bringing me out here and letting me spend these few nights with you.”

When Richie smiles, it’s sad and wistful. “No problem, babe. I like having you here. It turns out that retirement gets really fucking lonely. It feels just a bit easier with someone around.”

Mike feels something hard settle in the bottom of his stomach. He remembers that, what it felt like after his last season in the ECHL. Not being around teammates anymore, not having that support system to rely on, not having every second of his day occupied with _hockeyhockeyhockey._ The loneliness is consuming.

“Well, I’m glad I can help with that a little,” Mike says and he is. He likes being someone Richie can lean on through this.

Richie kisses him sweetly one last time before they fall asleep.

\--

Richie drives him to the airport bright and early. His actual car is just as nice as the rental he had had back in DC, barely making any noise as Richie speeds through the empty highways.

“I have something for you,” Richie says after Mike’s checked in at the counter.

Mike groans, but isn’t surprised. “You really didn’t have to-”

“It’s something small and something I already had,” Richie interrupts. “Don’t worry.”

He takes a small cardboard box out of his pocket. It’s white and unmarked and Mike opens it curiously. 

Inside is a small gold chain, the design thin and simple. There’s a pendant on it, the number ten in matching gold.

“Oh,” Mike says.

“I know you wear chains sometimes, and I thought you’d like that - to remember me by until I can come down to DC again,” Richie explains. He takes the chain out of the box, unclasping the hook. Mike lets him put it around his neck. 

“You’re incredibly cheesy,” Mike says, but his voice is thick. “Does this mean you’re asking me to go steady?” he teases lightly.

“Yeah, I guess I am,” Richie says, wrapping his fingers around the chain. He admires the way it looks falling against Mike’s collar bone. “Are you saying yes?”

“Yeah, of course,” Mike says, pulling Richie in for a kiss.

Mike can’t believe that Richie’s somehow made it harder to say goodbye.

\--

It’s nearly mid-afternoon by the time Mike gets back to his and Tom’s apartment. No one’s home, Tom probably on campus for his summer class. Usually Mike doesn’t mind a few hours to himself, but Tom’s absence makes the apartment feel empty and lonely, especially after Mike was surrounded by Richie’s laughter and the sounds of the lake and Arnold following them around the lake house for the last few days.

Mike has a closing shift at the gym, so he takes a quick shower and makes himself dinner with the few things in the fridge. He and Tom will have to do groceries soon. They’re down to the bare minimum, and Mike barely scrapes together enough for a sandwich before he’s out the door.

Since it’s a late shift, Nicky’s not there for the night. Their sales manager, TJ, is in his office, though, and Mike waves to him as he heads to the front desk where Andre is getting ready for the shift change.

“Welcome back,” Andre says he packs up his bag, “Willy’s been a right bitch the last few days.”

Mike sighs - he had a feeling that would be the case. He’s sure that Andre got an earful the last few days about everything Tom thought about him and Richie. “Sorry about that.”

“He’s just worried about you. All of a sudden you pack up your shit and leave town with a complete stranger? It’s not like you,” Andre says, his mouth in a straight line. It’s weird to see him without his usual smile on his face.

“Richie’s not a complete stranger,” Mike snaps. He’s exhausted from the traveling and from the itch that’s been under his skin ever since leaving Kenora. He doesn’t want to talk about this, not with Tom or with Andre or _anyone,_ and especially not here at work.

“Isn’t he, though?” Andre asks. He rests his hip against the front desk with his arms folded across his chest. “You met him - what? A week ago? I know he’s like, Mike Richards or whatever, but that doesn’t mean you _know_ him. And he definitely doesn’t know you.”

Mike doesn’t want to push this, doesn’t want to argue, so instead he says, “Go home, Burky. Your shift’s over. Tom’s probably home too by now - you two can sit around and bitch about what a huge mistake I’m making or whatever.”

Andre rolls his eyes. “Okay, sure, Latts. Whatever,” he says, grabbing his bag off the desk. 

He leaves without another word and Mike’s left to press down the anger simmering just below his surface.

\--

The shift passes by slowly.

Closing is always slow - there’s usually a rush between six and seven when people are getting off work, and then it peters out to the usuals who filter in and out until the twenty minute warning. Mike finds himself with lots of down time where he’s staring at his phone, hoping for a text from Richie that he never gets.

Carly’s at the desk with him, but he’s not there the whole time, leaving every once in a while to talk to TJ in his office or with Karl in sales. Mike feels Carly and TJ looking in his direction more than once through the glass windows of TJ’s office, and he wonders if Tom or Andre told them where he’s been the last few days.

Even though they haven’t done much of anything, Mike’s dead on his feet by the time Carly’s locking up the front door. Between the travel and thinking about Tom and Andre, Mike’s exhausted, and he wishes he was back in Kenora, lying on the couch with Richie while Arnold curls at their feet, instead of getting back in his car to go home where he might have to face Tom.

Mike lucks out, though. Tom’s shoes are in the hallway when he gets home, but the door to his room is closed. Mike manages to wash up for bed without running into him. He knows that they should talk about this, but the avoidance seems more manageable for now.

Mike settles into bed for the night, plugging in his phone. Before he turns off the lights, though, he opens up Facetime, hoping Richie hasn’t already turned in for the night.

“Hey there,” Richie says when he answers. His hair’s a bit of a mess, and he’s lying in bed also.

“Hey,” Mike says softly, and his residual anger seeps away quickly. “I was hoping you’d text me earlier.”

“Sorry,” Richie laughs. “You told me you’d be at work, so I wasn’t sure if it’d be okay. Was your flight and everything alright?”

“Yeah, it was great,” Mike says. Richie had put him up in first class again, even though Mike insisted economy was fine. “Work was weird, though. I got in a fight with Burky and Tom’s still avoiding me. The whole thing is getting really annoying.”

Richie frowns. “Are you guys arguing because of me? Mike, that’s the last thing I want.”

“No,” Mike says quickly, but then adds more sheepishly, “I mean, a little bit. But it’s nothing, really. I’ll talk to them soon. I think they’re just worried. It’s not really like me to drop everything for a guy.”

“Okay,” Richie says, but he sounds unsure.

Mike changes the subject, asking Richie what he’s been doing all day. They talk for a little longer, and Richie puts Arnold on Facetime so Mike can say goodnight to him. It’s well past midnight when they hang up and Mike’s a bit worried himself at exactly how much he misses Richie already when he’s curling up to go to sleep.

\--

Mike has no idea how, but he and Tom manage to avoid each for days.

“Are you and Willy having some kind of lover’s quarrel?” Ovi asks one day at the rink. Mike and Tom are supposed to be teaching a workshop together, but it’s Ovi out on the ice with him instead. Apparently Tom’s switched his shift.

“No,” Mike scoffs. “Where the hell did you learn that anyway? Lover’s quarrel.”

“Willy’s been in a bad mood for like a week and you two keep switching shifts,” Ovi says, shrugging. “It’s better to talk if something’s wrong.”

“Everything’s fine,” Mike says, but when he slaps his stick at the puck by his feet, it flies wide of the net, hitting the boards with a loud bang.

Between shifts at work, Mike talks to Richie on the phone or Facetimes him whenever he can. Mike also learns quickly that distance seems to mean nothing when it comes to Richie spending money on him.

Mike mentions losing his headphones at the gym and the next day there’s a package at his door with a wireless headset in it. Richie sends flowers to the rink and he makes reservations for Mike in restaurants so Mike can treat himself to a nice meal. He even gets groceries delivered one afternoon after Mike grumbles about how him and Tom still haven’t restocked the fridge.

“You really don’t have to do all this,” Mike says warily, opening up the latest package from Richie.

“I told you that I want to,” Richie says simply. “Put it on for me when you get it open.”

Mike has a feeling he knows what it is, and sure enough, the simple, unmarked box has a silver watch in it. It’s not flashy at all, but it’s obviously well-made and expensive. Mike had posted a story to his Instagram just a couple days ago of the watch he’d busted at the rink.

“Does it fit?” Richie asks as Mike slips the watch onto his wrist. “I know a place you can take it to get it adjusted if not.”

“No, it’s perfect,” Mike says, flashing the watch at Richie over Facetime and Richie smiles wide.

“It looks, great, babe,” he says and Mike hates that the simple compliments still make him blush.

\--

Between the rink and opening shifts at the gym, it’s rare for Mike to have a morning to sleep in. He wakes up one morning with a start before realizing he has nowhere to be until later in the evening. He goes back to sleep for a couple hours, grateful for the chance to lie in bed for the morning instead of rushing off to work somewhere.

It’s nearly noon by the time Mike is up and getting out of the shower. He’s digging around in the fridge, scratching lazily at his stomach and wondering what he should have for lunch when he hears the doorknob rattling.

Mike freezes, cold air from the fridge sending goosebumps up his arms as the front door opens and Tom walks through. He stops in tracks when he sees Mike and they both just stand there, staring at each other awkwardly. It’s the first time they’ve seen each other since Mike’s gotten back from Kenora.

“I thought you’d be at work,” Tom says finally. There’s a small, brown box in his hands.

“I don’t work until later tonight,” Mike says. “Closing at the gym with Andre.”

“Oh.”

Mike hates how awkward this is, how he’s still standing with the fridge open and Tom’s still standing at the door like neither of them are sure if it’s okay to move.

“Do you want lunch?” Mike asks, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

Tom doesn’t relax, exactly, but his shoulders drop a little. “Sure,” he says, finally closing the door behind him. He takes a seat at the breakfast bar as Mike starts to take stuff out of the fridge to make sandwiches.

“Um, you got a package. It was by the door,” Tom says, pushing the small brown box towards where Mike’s laid out the bread and meats and cheeses. 

Mike blushes. “It’s probably from Richie,” he says, and he can’t help but keep the exasperation out of his voice.

“You don’t sound so excited?” Tom says, and it’s more of a question than a statement.

“He keeps sending me stuff even though I told him he doesn’t need to,” Mike explains, not looking Tom in the eye. “He said he likes spending his money on people, but it feels like a bit too much sometimes.”

“Is that where all the new stuff you’ve been getting is from?” Tom asks and then turns slightly pink. “I’ve been seeing boxes and stuff in the recycling, I mean. I was just wondering.”

“Yeah,” Mike says, and doesn’t know what to add after that.

It’s quiet again as Mike finishes up the sandwiches. He knows exactly how Tom likes his, how much meat to cheese he prefers, how he likes lettuce and tomatoes but hates cucumbers and definitely hates pickles. Mike’s made this exact sandwich what feels like hundreds of times, and it’s easier to concentrate on instead of trying to figure out what to say to Tom next.

Mike slides Tom’s plate to him. Tom picks up the sandwich but it stays slackly in his hand. Instead of taking a bite, he asks, “Is Richards your sugar daddy or something?”

“What the fuck?” Mike stutters out, face heating up from surprise. “ _No_.”

Tom shrugs, finally tucking into his sandwich. “That’s not what it looks like. He’s older, he has money, he’s spending so much buying you shit and flying you out to spend time with him. Sounds like a sugar daddy.”

“He’s not my _sugar daddy_ ,” Mike hisses. “Willy, what the fuck-?”

“I’m just saying, I’d be more okay with him being your sugar daddy than like, if he was just using you,” Tom says. “At least this way he’s taking care of you.”

“Is that what you were worried about? That he was using me? Using me for what? Sex?” Mike asks blandly.

Tom turns a little pink and shrugs awkwardly. “I don’t know! It doesn’t seem out of the question. Like you obviously had a huge crush on him and I didn’t want him to take advantage of that to string you along or something.”

Mike sighs. He takes his own plate and sits down next to Tom at the bar, turning on his stool so they’re facing each other. “Tom, that’s sweet but I can take care of myself, dude. And Richie’s not using me and he’s not my sugar daddy - we’re dating. He _likes_ me and I like him too, not just because he’s Mike Richards, but because he’s just Richie, y’know?”

Tom searches Mike’s face for something and then gives him a small smile. “Okay - okay, I’m sorry, Mike. I just overreacted, I think. If you’re happy with him, then I’m happy too.”

“Thanks dude,” Mike says, relaxing. “I am happy. Like really happy. And I’m sorry too, for getting so angry.”

“Should we hug it out?” Tom asks jokingly and Mike laughs.

“Yeah, sure. Why not?” he says, and wraps his arms around Tom, even though it’s awkward with the two of them sitting at the bar.

“Dude, this watch is sick,” Tom says, grabbing Mike’s wrist as they pull away. “He really is treating you right, isn’t he?”

“He’s okay,” Mike says, but he can’t keep the smile off his face.

\--

Tom leaves again soon after lunch for a shift at the rink, and Mike takes the opportunity to call Richie before he has to leave for work.

“I made up with Tom,” Mike says in greeting, and Richie laughs.

“Hello to you too,” he says, eyes crinkling in the corners with his smile. “I’m glad, though. Everything’s okay now?”

“Yeah,” Mike says, plopping down in his bed. He rearranges himself so he’s propped up against the pillows. There’s no comfortable angle to hold the phone, really, so he just leaves it pointing up from his lap even though it makes him terrible in the front camera. “Tom asked if you were my sugar daddy.”

Richie’s face turns bright red, and it’s the first time probably that Mike’s the one making him blush. “He what?” Richie chokes out. “I’m not-”

“I know you’re not,” Mike laughs. “I told him as much. But you know, it’s a fair question. You are always buying me fancy things, telling me how to dress-”

“Speaking of buying you things, did you get today’s package?” Richie asks, obviously trying to change the subject.

Mike lets him have the out, shaking his head. “No - I mean, I got it, but I haven’t looked at it yet.”

“Go open it,” Richie says. “I wanna see your reaction when you do.”

Mike raises an eyebrow in curiosity, but sets his phone down, going back to the kitchen. The brown package is still on the breakfast bar where Tom left it earlier.

“What is it?” Mike asks when he walks back into his room. It’s small and light. Mike shakes it a little. The slight rattling noise it makes doesn’t give much away.

“Open it,” Richie says.

Mike props his phone up against the pillows, sitting cross-legged across from it. He opens the box carefully, and inside, among a pile of bubble wrap, is a small set of silver keys.

“If you bought me something ridiculous like an apartment I’m going to buy my own ticket to Kenora and kick your ass,” Mike says, taking the keys out of the box.

There’s two of them, both silver. They definitely look like house keys.

“They’re to a condo actually, not an apartment,” Richie says, “and I didn’t buy it for you. I bought it for me. In Arlington.”

“You’re moving back here?” Mike asks, dropping the keys in surprise.

“The Caps offered me a job,” Richie says, grinning. “Not a contract,” he adds, answering Mike’s question before he can ask it, “more on the development side of things. But I accepted it. I’ll be moving back officially before training camp starts.”

“That’s so great, Richie,” Mike says sincerely. He can’t stop smiling, warmth settling in his chest. “And the keys-?”

“Are yours,” Richie explains. “To come and go as you please. You can even check the place out before I get there. I’ll be coming by to check it out in a couple weeks.”

“This isn’t moving a bit fast?” Mike asks and Richie shrugs.

“Maybe,” he says, licking his lips nervously. “But I want you to have them. You don’t even have to use them - I just want you to have them.”

“Okay,” Mike says, smiling. “I’m so glad you’ll be coming back here. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” Richie says. “And I’ll see you soon, babe. Just a couple of weeks.”

Mike thinks he can make it through a couple of weeks.

\--

Mike does it make it through the next couple of weeks, but just barely. 

It’s easier now that him and Tom are talking again. Tom’s back to teasing him about Richie, joking about the gifts Richie buys and the way Mike goes all soft-eyed when they Facetime. Mike doesn’t even care, he knows he’s being ridiculous, but he’s fallen for Richie and he doesn’t care if he’s being painfully obvious about it.

To make the time go faster, Mike picks up extra shifts at both his jobs. It keeps him busy, and he’s grateful for the extra cash so he can save up before classes start in the fall and he has to cut back on hours again.

The day Richie’s flight’s supposed to land, Mike switches shifts with Carly at the gym so he doesn’t have to open in the morning. He’s still up bright and early, though, driving to Reagan so he can pick Richie up.

They meet in arrivals, and Mike can’t help himself - he throws his arms around Richie, kissing him deeply as soon as they find each other. Richie looks good, his hair a little mussed and a hint of stubble on his face. His skin is sunkissed and his smile bright, and fuck, Mike has missed him.

“God, I’ve missed you,” Mike says and Richie laughs, kissing him again, biting slightly at Mike’s bottom lip.

“I’ve missed you too,” he says. “Now, come on, let’s go home.”

It’s weird seeing Richie in his old broken-down car, Mike thinks. The engine stalls out as he turns the key, and Mike smiles at Richie sheepishly.

“Sorry, this happens sometimes,” Mike says, trying the key again, and it luckily roars to life after a few turns.

“Maybe I should get you a new car next,” Richie says, and Mike’s eyes widen.

“Don’t you dare-”

Richie laughs, leaning over the center console. He wraps his fingers in Mike’s hair, and Mike lets Richie pull him in for a kiss. “Listen, I would buy you the world if it made you happy, the only reason I don’t is because I know you’d kill me.”

Mike relaxes, laughing against Richie’s mouth. “I’m glad you have at least a little bit of restraint.”

“Not much,” Richie admits. His eyes dart down to Mike’s mouth and he kisses him again, more quickly this time. “Now, home, come on. Or else you’ll see just how little restraint I actually have.”

Mike laughs and steps on the gas.

\--

They spend all morning and all afternoon in Richie’s condo, christening most of the flat surfaces. 

While Mike’s missed just being around Richie, there’s no denying he’s missed this part too. He’s missed Richie’s skilled hands, his clever mouth, his thick dick. Mike’s missed all of it, and he’s glad to have Richie again, naked and panting underneath him as they mess up Richie’s brand new sheets. 

“Do you have to go to work?” Richie asks, kissing Mike’s shoulder. It’s nearly time for Mike’s shift for Teen Night at the rink to start and he still needs to shower and get dressed. 

“Unfortunately. Don’t think Ovi would appreciate it if I just didn’t show up,” Mike says. 

Richie pouts a little. He turns toward Mike, bringing him in by the back of his neck to kiss him deep and slow. Richie’s tongue presses against the seam of Mike’s mouth, and the kiss turns filthy fast when Mike tilts his head to the side. 

“Ugh, no, Richie I really do have to get ready,” Mike says, pushing Richie away reluctantly. His dick is already a bit heavy between his legs, and Mike’s a bit surprised he can get hard at all. 

“Fine,” Richie says, rolling over onto his back with a dramatic sigh. “Can I at least join you in the shower?”

“I guess that’d be okay,” Mike says, and Richie is quick to follow as Mike gets out of bed. 

\--

Richie chooses an outfit for Mike to wear to work - a simple heather gray shirt and tight dark jeans. It’s simple and comfortable which is perfect for Mike when he’s working concessions, but Richie mentions more than once how good Mike looks in it. 

“All those girls at Teen Night are gonna being falling for you,” Richie laughs and Mike blushes. 

“Yeah, because that’s exactly what I need, is a bunch of teenage girls trying to slip me their number,” Mike says, rolling his eyes. 

“Let them flirt, as long as you come home to me after,” Richie says. 

“You know I will,” Mike promises, “I like older men anyway.”

Richie laughs again, with Mike’s favorite smile, the one that shows off his laugh lines and all his teeth. 

It make Mike smile, too, and he gets an idea suddenly, asking, “Hey, so Tom and I both have days off this weekend actually and we wanted to have a few people over on Saturday night. Would you like to come? I want you to meet some of the people I work with and stuff.”

Richie’s smile gets wider. “Yeah, of course, I’d love that.”

Mike grins and kisses him sweet but quick, not letting Richie take it past that because there’s no way he wants to be late to work. 

\--

“I can’t believe you invited Mike Richards to our party,” Tom says as they straighten up the apartment on Saturday. 

Mike rolls his eyes, taking a few empty beer bottles they had left on the coffee table over to the sink to rinse them out. “You’ve met him before. And he’s not just Mike Richards, he’s my boyfriend.”

“Yeah, but he’s still Mike Richards. Does he know you have a poster of him in your room?”

Mike stops. He should probably take that down before Richie gets here. “No, and he’s not going to.”

It doesn’t take too long to tidy everything up and make it look presentable. Mike tries not think about the stains on their couch or how old their TV is or how they only have a ping pong table instead of an actual dining room table. He knows if he dwells on it too long, it’ll just put him in a sour mood, which is stupid when he _knows_ that Richie won’t care about any of it. 

Mike finishes getting dressed - one of the button downs Richie had gotten him with a t-shirt underneath and the khaki pants that he knows makes his ass and thighs look good - when people start filtering in. Andre brings beer and Ovi brings a bottle of strong Russian vodka. TJ and Carly come together and Nicky follows not long after with - to Andre’s delight - Brooks. 

Beags and Tom start a ping pong game and everyone settles in with food and drinks. Mike just barely escapes Andre pining over Brooks when his phone buzzes and he sees he has a text from Richie that he’s here. 

Mike’s stomach flips a little as he makes his way to the door. It’s the first time Richie will be seeing his apartment and meeting his friends. He just wants it to go well. 

“Hey,” Mike greets, opening the door and he can’t ignore the heat that pools in his belly at the way Richie looks him up and down. 

“Hey, you look great,” Richie says. “Did I get you this?” he asks, rubbing the collar of Mike’s shirt between his fingers. 

“Uh, yeah,” Mike’s says, “the day we went shopping.” 

Richie nods, “Hm, yeah, it was a good choice. It looks - really good.”

Mike pushes back the spike of desire he feels at the possessive look in Richie’s eyes. There will be time for that later. 

“Thanks,” he says, blushing. “Come on, come inside.”

Mike takes Richie’s hand, pulling him inside. 

Mike didn’t really know how this would turn out, how everyone would react to Richie being there. For the most part, though, no one really reacts. If they’re surprised to see Mike Richards in Tom and Mike’s apartment, they don’t show it. 

Tom brings Richie a beer and Ovi hugs him like an old friend even though they’ve only met once. Mike brings Richie around, introduces him to friends and co-workers and smiles when he realizes that Richie seems to be fitting in with them all easily. 

“He’s really down to Earth, isn’t he?” Nicky asks Mike later, following him into the kitchen for more beer. 

“Who, Richie?” Mike asks, and Nicky nods. 

“He seems very - normal,” Nicky says, accepting the beer Mike hands him. 

“What did you think he’d be like?” Mike asks and Nicky shrugs. 

“I don’t know. I mean he’s a hockey player, he has a reputation, I think we were all a bit worried. But he seems nice.”

“He’s great,” Mike says. “I really like him.”

Nicky nods with a sincere smile. “We can see that. Congrats, though. You’re a good guy, Latts, and you deserve someone who’s good to you.” 

“Thanks, Backy,” Mike says, face a little hot. Nicky claps him on the shoulder in the way out the kitchen. 

\--

The party winds down a little after midnight, mostly everyone taking cabs or Ubers back home while a couple people pass out on the couch. Mike doesn’t miss the fact that Brooks has fallen asleep on top of Andre or the fact that Ovi and Nicky left together with Ovi’s arm firm around Nicky’s waist, and judging by Tom’s smirk, he hasn’t either. 

Richie stays late, helping Mike and Tom do some cleaning, but they agree to save most of it for the morning when they’re a bit more sober and not nearly as tired. 

“Stay here tonight?” Mike asks and Richie nods, kissing him slowly. 

“Yeah, of course.”

Luckily, Mike’s room is pretty clean, and he did remember to take the old Flyers poster off his wall. Richie laughs when the first shirt Mike pulls out of his drawers is an old Kitchener Rangers one, and puts it on despite the blush creeping up Mike’s neck and face. 

“Did you have fun tonight? I’m sure it wasn’t that great compared to some of the other parties you’ve been to,” Mike says when they’re crawling into bed. 

Richie rolls them over, climbing on top of Mike to straddle him. He leans down, kissing Mike deep and thorough. “It was great. I liked meeting your friends, seeing your apartment. I like feeling like a part of your life.”

“It’s really nothing special,” Mike says sheepishly and Richie shakes his head. 

“It is special. It’s special because you’re special to me. I want to know everything about you, Mike, about your job and your classes and your friends and family. I don’t want to feel like we’re living two different lives.” 

“You’re special to me too,” Mike says. “I’m glad that we’re doing this, that you’re here.”

Richie leans down again to kiss him. He mouths at Mike’s jaw, down the column of his throat. He kisses the cool metal of the chain around Mike’s neck, the one with his number on it. 

They don’t do much else that night. Richie arranges them so he’s spooned up against Mike’s back. He throws his arm around Mike’s waist and Mike can feel Richie’s breath against his skin. 

It doesn’t take long for Mike to fall asleep - after all, they have plenty of time for everything else. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!! Comments and kudos are super appreciated. 
> 
> If you like to cry about how much you love and miss both Michael Latta and Mike Richards you can find me doing just that @ tjoshov on both Twitter and Tumblr.


End file.
